


Curse of the Shiri-Kodama

by salarta



Category: NIOH (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Blasphemy, Body Hair, Body Modification, Brain Drain - Freeform, Costume Change, Derogatory Language, Dom/sub, Exile, F/F, Filthy, Forced Orgasm, Forced Prostitution, Humiliation, Intelligence Loss, Kiai Orgasm, Language Humiliation, Language Kink, Loss of Identity, Mind Control, Name Changes, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Prostitution, Public Humiliation, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Samurai, Scents & Smells, Tattoos, body control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salarta/pseuds/salarta
Summary: Maria uses a special skill from the legendary Kappa to turn Fuku and Ginchiyo into mockeries of themselves.





	1. Fortune's Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1613, Maria steals Fuku's shiri-kodama and uses it to change her from a smart, devout onmyo mage to a dumb, blasphemous prostitute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I don't know the Japanese language, most of what I use in this story is a mix of Google translate and jumping around places like wiktionary to self-construct. If someone that knows better sees something wrong, drop it in reviews and I'll fix it.

Maria eyed Fuku with more than a mild hint of admiration. So smart, so cultured, so composed, the onmyo mage carried herself with the sort of regal posture one might expect from kings and queens - not from one who spent her days dabbling in mystic arts. Her attack stance? Perfect. One leg back, lips parted for a fierce shout, Fuku held her arm aloft with the sure discipline of a warrior as her weapon of choice glowed purple on the tip of an outstretched finger.

But what caught Maria most of all about the Asian beauty was her eyes. Through those cloudy grey pupils, tainted by the afterglow of her magic, Maria saw a woman who knew conviction in her native tongue. The mage glared where her foe once stood with enough quiet rage to send an average man quaking for cover. The wondrous downward crest of Fuku's dark eyebrows made a show of spoiling her usual calm. It seemed almost a shame that Maria would have to ruin this raven-haired wonder.

Almost.

As her shadow selves caught up with her, Maria stopped behind Fuku. Even from behind, she recognized the panicked confusion of a woman who lost sight of her target. Fuku's gaze darted left, right, left, right, up, and incredulously down. Every time, those who faced Maria in battle failed to consider the most obvious place she might hide until many seconds too late. 

Fuku dropped her arm and moved to turn. She wouldn't get the chance.

With all the swiftness of a Spanish ninja, Maria wrapped her arms around Fuku and groped her giant tits. Pawing, kneading, squeezing, she played with their full firm thickness while Fuku threw her head back and groaned. The mage's squirming only made Maria's grip tighter, holding on and riding her like a wild horse in sore need of taming.

"Nani yattenda!" Fuku cried.

"What does it feel like? I'm sampling the merchandise." To make a point, Maria really clamped down on one of the divine pair. Fuku shuddered like all who felt her playful touch. Then, like all her foes who loathed such affections, Fuku rolled her back until she stood upright and spun for a harsh slap.

Cue phase two. Entering shadow step, Maria unsheathed her sword and sliced across the top of Fuku's robes. One quick, clean cut went straight through patterned black leather and white undercloth, stopping short of pristine pale flesh. In her path below Fuku's raised arm, Maria left slits down the sides, severed the red cord about Fuku's waist, and left a mighty smack to her plaything's ass for good measure. Ending several strides behind, she watched with eager bated breath as Fuku clutched her stinging cheeks with a surprised yelp and turned to face her.

"Ah! Watashi no mazushī itamu shiri!"

"Has anyone ever said how lovely your language sounds?" Maria taunted. "Every word becomes poetry, and there's no better seasoning than shame."

Fuku's pained expression made it all the sweeter. Second by second, act by act, she could see the mage's composure breaking down. Weakness of spirit settled into once taut limbs. Fuku's formerly rigid, spine-stiff stance slumped with careless disregard for decades worth of training. Then, the sweetest sound of all emerged from that visage of fallen grace.

Riiiiiip. Confusion marred the mage's looks with a scrunched, squinting shift of her features. Pursed lips and a wrinkling nose espoused disgust. Somewhere deep in the recesses of Fuku's mind, she knew what she heard meant fresh humiliations inflicted on her by the Spanish gadfly. What she didn't know was how. She localized the sound. Below. Her body. Her torso. Her chest. She looked down in time to see strings stretch and snap, clothes sliding down into a worthless heap at her feet. Acting quick, she splayed an arm across her naked bosom and covered her womanhood with the other hand.

For the first time in many long years, she blushed. 

"Red is a good color on you, mage," Maria said. "I may yet draw more of it out before we're through."

"Dōshite?! Watashi wa anata ni nani o shita koto ga arimasu ka!"

"It's not anything you have done. It's what a certain special someone wants done _to_ you. Although I must admit, I'm having a lot of fun."

Fuku trembled as she turned aside, crossed her legs and dared to raise her hand. The mage's ragged breathing betrayed deep-seated fear. A soft, shallow glimmer in her cloudy pupils revealed a spirit beaten, broken and fearful of a woman she knew to be her better. The dull purple light of Fuku's magic itself showed lack of faith in her own prowess. Could she fight the mighty Maria? Could she even defend herself? Could she salvage her wounded pride and resist her rising urge to flee? Or, would the last of her will power fade and cause her to make a name for herself as a faithless coward throughout all of Japan?

As a connoisseur of cultures, Maria read these thoughts through the universal language of Fuku's body and smirked. She had the mage right where she wanted. Now to seal the deal.

Shadow-stepping, Maria blurred behind her foe. Crouching, she stared straight on into the perfect blow. Step one: ball her hand into a fist. Step two: rear her arm back and pour amrita into the attack. Step three: ram her fist right up the mage's ass with as much force as she could muster. The attack landed perfectly. As her knuckles pried the puckered hole open, Fuku's cheeks wantonly jiggled. Buried. Absolutely buried. Wrist-deep. Its tightness made itself known as Maria lifted higher, forcing the mage onto her tiptoes.

"Aiiiiiiiii!" Fuku cried, grimacing and closing her eyes as she winced. Her back arched. Letting the purple magic glow fade off her finger, she reached down and grasped her butt once more. "Sore wa son'nani itaidesu. Tomare!"

"I thought you were a proud onmyo mage? No matter. I'll be finished as soon as I... got it!"

Clutching her prize, Maria pulled out as quickly as she entered. Her foe collapsed before her like a puppet with cut strings - a fitting analogy, given what she now possessed. It glowed in her palm. Light slipped between her fingers. Eagerly, she rose to her feet and opened her hand to gaze upon a miracle move known only by the Kappa until this day.

"Oh, Fuku. Guess what I have. I'll give you a hint: it's small, bright, and I pulled it from the most obvious place you would expect to find it in an uptight priestess."

"Shite kudasai, jihi o hyōji shite kudasai," Fuku murmured weakly.

"Boring as it might be, I think the first thing I'll do is get rid of this annoying language barrier."

Knowledge trickled free from Fuku's addled mind, Japanese words and phrases lost in favor of a fresh English vocab. Not everything. She remembered certain chants, certain terms, enough to cast simple spells or pose simple questions. Explain simple needs. Get a rough idea of what other people meant with _their_ words. Not enough to hold much in the way of conversation.

Despite the mental shift, Fuku still sought to use her former native tongue. Pieces of Japanese fluttered in and out. She couldn't string it together. The sentence wouldn't build. It took time for her to admit defeat, but when she did, she spoke without the perks that a normal first language might afford.

"Please. You must stop. Not even the yokai show such cruelty." Her high pitch raced through her speech at uniform pace, leaving behind a bored, breathy aftertaste. Letters chopped off words molded into the shape of cloying moans. Despite her newfound verbal prowess, it came with the accent of a Japanese woman who never quite learned how to handle its finer points.

Or, to put it another way: Fuku pronounced the only language she knew with the skill of a secondhand speaker forced to blunder her way through expected discourse. 

To which a naughty smirk crossed Maria's rouge lips. "Atarashī gengo ni tsuite dono yō ni kanjimasu ka?"

"K... ki... kira... I hate it," Fuku confessed. "I should be able to speak to my own people."

"I'm afraid that's no longer an option. Feel free to try to re-learn your native tongue, but you'll soon find that to be a pointless effort. Lucky for you, I happen to be fluent in Spanish, English and yes, Japanese. You won't need to worry about whether or not I can understand you."

"Why have you changed me in this way?"

"Why? Because I can. Because I want to hear the self-loathing in your voice as you beg me not to change you further."

"The shiri-kodama-"

"Yes, I have your shiri-kodama. I think you know what that means."

Dejected, Fuku sighed in abject failure. "I'm yours to do with as you wish."

"Very good," Maria said, walking around the fallen woman to stand before her. "As our next order of business, we'll test that body to see what it can do."

With a tap tap tap of the shiri-kodama, Fuku rose from the ground. It came in stages. She started limp. Knees bowed. Legs parted. Arms and head hanging. Torso pitched forward. In every sense, she played the part of a restrung puppet. Then, one by one, the myriad parts of her body went stiff. Legs tucked in. Feet slid closer. Knees buckled into place. She stood up. Looked ahead. Raised her arms. Soon, even Fuku's quivering lips and eyes shifted back into a cheap placid copy of her former zen calm. Under her ninja mistress, the marionette mage found her footing.

All was ready. Every fiber of Fuku's being wanted to _scream_ in defiance as her hands settled behind her head. Her fingers weaved together, an intricate lacing of digits meant to reinforce what came next. Nice and stable, she stretched her elbows out as far as they could go.

Then, she shook her tits.

She started slow, barely swaying the two hefty globes. Swaying moved to a light shimmy, then swinging, then thrashing, until she flailed her pair around like the meteor hammers of Chinese lore. Their damnable weight dredged up the first of many English phrases Fuku would come to know by heart: look, don't touch. Left, right, left, right, their motion blur served as ample warning for any who might be dumb enough to try sticking any part of themselves in their path. 

Of course, their value didn't stop at how swiftly Fuku could knock a grown man off his feet. The wild abandon with which Fuku let her naked boobs flounce about in open air made for a hypnotic sight. Her dark twin peaks rose and fell like wobbling mountains on her chest. In time, traces of violet onmyo magic leaked free, swiffing streaks that lingered long enough to show their fine cadence. 

Yet for all the allure of her bust, what truly sold the lovely vision was Fuku's face. Even as she carried out this most perverse command, she kept her head fixed, her gaze forward, her lips still and straight. Her eyes burned with a holy woman's resolve. Confidence stretched in every taut muscle, folded in the crinkling of her brows, jetted from her nose with every raging hot breath. She was a mage on a mission, ready to lay down her life in the line of divine duty. Her constant straining to pour her best into the next mighty heave-ho proved the depths of her commitment to her one true calling.

... A true calling that meant every ounce of effort - _every_ ounce - went toward turning herself into a sexed up mockery for Maria's pleasure. 

That's how it looked from without, at least. Within, Fuku seethed and trembled in shame. Every pass of her tits meant another chunk of pride chipped off her massive chest. Her _massive_ burden bore down on her back and shoulders as if to punish her for daring to resist her mistress. She wanted to take a break and slump. She ached! Yet she kept going.

"Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup!" She shouted with gusto whenever her nipples reached crescendo. Between those sounds and her determined glare, she gave off the wonderfully absurd aura of a woman mastering her jutsu. A samurai devoted himself to the way of the sword. Ninja discovered when and how to use their many stealth tools. For Fuku, it was all about the heft, bounce and jiggle of those luscious curves. Her countenance said everything: no matter how many hours of training it took, she would learn how to wield her melons to maximum effect.

Her looks and actions said this, as Maria played with Fuku's little anus ball of a soul. "Those are some very fine breasts, Fuku."

"Thank you!" Fuku vocal cords volunteered, with an inhuman glee coaxed out by Maria's ministrations. "I aim to perfect my technique. Everyone who sees me deserves a proper show of my body."

"Oh really?" Maria teased. Her words suggested something more. Much more. After a few more cycles of Fuku's so-called training, she followed through. "If presentation is your main concern, we'll need to do something about your wardrobe."

Under Maria's power, Fuku finally calmed her tits - best as she could given their momentum. Trying for a dead stop nearly sent her spinning like a wild top to the ground. Balancing on her left foot tiptoes, she wagged her elbows just enough to shift and swing her pair the other way. From there she had a slower, safer descent, until they settled in place.

And so the Spanish ninja set about reimagining Fuku. Approaching the onmyo mage, Maria squatted into the dregs of Fuku's old robes and sifted. Delicate fingers found the prize she sought: a set of paper talismans. Ofuda, the onmyoji called them. They blessed or cursed humans and yokai as needed so long as a mage imbued them with power. This set bore no such power, but Maria had another purpose in mind. Sticking Fuku's shiri-kodama down her blouse for safe keeping, she held an ofuda in each hand and pressed their top edges length-wise against Fuku's nipples.

"Seal," Maria simply said.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-AH!"

With a mighty bellow, and that very same committed scowl Maria loved so well, Fuku poured all her onmyo prowess in the act. Her teats glowed with obscene brightness as a spell bonded the paper to their horny tips. Upon release, the slips hung free and held firm. Even a sharp southern wind failed to dislodge them, her twin ofuda flapping merrily while the cool breeze prickled her poor exposed bust. For the first time in all of history, a rare female onmyo mage eagerly sullied the tools of her holy trade on temple grounds. Or so it might look to any who saw her.

For some, that touch alone would prove embarrassment enough. Some. Not Maria. She knew precisely how this fight would end well before she ascended the shrine's stairs and set foot past its torii. She came prepared.

She could have reached up and removed Fuku's prized accessories in the blink of an eye. She didn't. She wanted to savor the moment. She wanted Fuku to feel it as she took hold of that red and blue prayer bead necklace, drew the holy woman in, planted a hot wet kiss on her lips and ripped the necklace off. She wanted to show how thoroughly she owned the priestess, how she wielded power enough to make the holiest of devotees accept her twisted affections.

Not love. Not lust. Not passion. Power. Within their forced embrace and parting, Maria tasted piety, compassion, resolve, all the traits that made her breaking so delicious. All withering on her tongue. Composing Fuku, Maria continued her game. "Your days of prayer have passed, mage. I have a more fitting gift for you to wear."

"What kind of gift?" Fuku whimpered.

"Shhhh." Dipping a hand into her blouse, she fished out the 'generous gift' and made short work of tying it around the back of Fuku's neck.

Next went the earrings. Clasping them as gently as a lover, Maria wriggled the futaku bells from Fuku's lobes and threw them to some forgotten corner. In exchange, Maria clipped in what amounted to a strip of paper for each ear. Fuku might have known what they were if Maria permitted her to take a look. She did not. Instead, the Spaniard stepped back and observed from afar with an appreciative nod.

"Yes, that should do nicely." Before Fuku could ask the obvious question, Maria answered. "Around your neck is a very special omamori charm, straight from Kanayama Shrine. Once I explained the need, the shrine's priests had little trouble embroidering the omamori with the biggest, juiciest manhood they could imagine. Suffice to say, your sexual fortunes will soon improve greatly."

"... What about my earrings?" 

"Omikuji, I believe they're called? I took the liberty of picking out a pair to greatly curse you with inauspicious directions. I couldn't have your newfound luck with men lead you to great fame and fortune, could I?"

At that news, Fuku's heart sank. Without the jingle of her futaku to guide her, she had no means of discerning whether the winds setting her nipple ofuda aflutter meant salvation or further falls from grace. Her new omikuji nearly ensured most changes in the wind meant ill will toward her. The loss of her sole way of picking out the rare good within the bad wrested away still more control over her life. 

Yet, impossibly, Maria was not done.

For this next phase of dress-up, the Spaniard pulled a simple strip of cloth from her corset belt. Slipping it between Fuku's quaking thighs, she tugged high and hard, see-sawing until it dug deep between her captive's tender loins. She paused long enough to glance upon Fuku's face and savor cracks of arousal within feigned defiance. Flushed cheeks, curling lip corners, the mage surely warred within herself to resist. Continuing on, she took the back end and wrapped it around Fuku's waist, returning to the small of her back and looping to make a nice tight twist of the fabric. That only left the front half. Rather than waste her time on forming a neat package, Maria let that portion drape forward to rest at Fuku's knees.

Another task complete. Like Fuku's ofuda, this new underwear served her body well. It concealed a mess of dark pubes while exposing her bare ass to eyes and elements. Anywhere else in the world, the shame stopped at a show of skin. This was special. Among those of Fuku's faith, the wearing of a fundoshi in public marked important occasions. For men. Only men. Sure, no rules denied women the right to dress as they wished, but for Fuku to refuse the expected koshimaki wrap-around skirt and so brazenly don what no _proper_ lady would...

It was an insult. A beautiful, suggestive insult. An insult guaranteed to mark her from afar as a vulgar woman lacking any semblance of the class or grace she spent many years perfecting. And though Maria enjoyed the sight, she had one more piece to change in Fuku's ensemble. "About this hat. It's a tate-eboshi, yes?"

"Yes, mistress!" 

"I may be new to Japanese culture, but from what I gather, it belongs on the heads of wise and pious priests - not perverted, blundering fools. No, as a representative of Spain, it is my utmost duty to respect Japanese customs. If that means confiscating this hat and providing one that suits you, so be it."

Swiftly, Fuku's tate-eboshi followed the fate of her futaku before it. Maria's forming of a portal and disappearing within its glowing lines left Fuku standing there. Alone. Quiet. Cold. She shivered in the night, eyes darting around. A true warrior might have feared wild beasts. Fuku had other fears. What if Tenkai found his disciple so tastelessly posed? What if Lord Ieyasu arrived in search of guidance, only to witness her sudden turn toward profaning everything she once believed? What if... what if...

A fresh breeze mocked her dread with the sound of paper and cloth whipping about. 'This is who you are now', it seemed to say - a crass harlot meant to walk a path of self-ruin, a sexual de-wakening of body and mind. Silence in her captor's absence brought her surest sign of defeat. Nothing would come to save her. She would serve the whims of her body in whatever manner Maria chose.

As such, when Maria returned, Fuku didn't curse the Spaniard's wide grin, or how the moonless dark hid Maria's pale skin as keenly as what she held. She settled for accepting what would come as Maria passed under hanging lamp light. Fire revealed her fate.

A paper hat. Round, white, tall and pointed, it set nicely with the aid of Fuku's black motodori topknot bun. Its cone shape fit as snugly as her former tate-eboshi. With another loud grunt and outpouring of purple magic at its edges, she assured it bore no risk of toppling off. So attired, she waited in confusion for her mistress to explain its purpose.

Sadly for the mage, this answer would _not_ come out freely. "Fuku, what do you think that hat means?"

Thinking quickly on Maria's recent remarks, she answered, "It marks me as a f-"

Suddenly, the word caught in her throat. It refused to budge. Then, it changed. Its travel upward, over her tongue, past her lips brought forth something different. "-fast and easy lay. Its tip means I'm always horny."

"Close, but not quite. It's a dunce cap. It has no value in Japan yet, but in Europe, only the dumbest of people wear it. I'm pleased to see it's a perfect fit for your empty head." That much shame would have been enough for most. Not Maria. She leaned in, whispering for the simple thrill of pretending to share a deep secret with the mage. "Not that it began as such. Like you, its creator was a man of high learning. Centuries later, his sole claim to fame is this hat. Imagine an entire life's work wiped out by a twisted idea of him through what he wore. Can you imagine?"

She could. Thoughts flitted through her mind of insults, mockery, people pointing at her absurd hat and laughing as she professed herself to be some wise mage in need of assistance. She saw in her mind's eye how she might look, a mostly naked holy woman who somehow - _somehow_ \- failed to resist evil spirits as they forced her out in public with this ridiculous attire.

Maria was right. Only a fool would expect anyone to take her claims seriously. Only a fool would think the sort of person willing to fist her ass on request would do it for some mythological soul buried in its depths. A woman's soul. In her ass. What a truly absurd notion.

A notion Maria was ready to bring full circle.

Pacing away, the Spaniard removed the shiri-kodama from her cleavage and commanded Fuku to stand akimbo. At last, the unholy raiments were complete - and yet Maria found the palette lacking. The puppet needed more. Details. Something to fill out those vast stretches of untouched skin. For now, she stroked the shiri-kodama and spoke.

"From this day forward, this is what you wear. No matter what season or surroundings you find yourself in, you will never cover your body. If anyone asks, your deep desire to arouse and offend people with your lewd body trumps all other needs."

"Yes, mistress."

"Good. Next. You are no longer a practicing onmyo mage. You attempted to learn for years but found even the most basic concepts beyond your grasp. One day, you realized your body and mind were only good for sex. Having discovered this truth, you abandoned the ways of onmyodo to follow your true calling as a lowly prostitute."

"But mistress," Fuku practically begged, "I possess enough beauty and charm to rival the prettiest geisha. I could command a hefty sum. I do not need to-"

"No," Maria insisted. "You will be cheap. You will be crude. You will make yourself available to any man or woman that wants you, no matter how little money they offer. Your story is that of a fallen onmyo mage who realized her faith mattered less to her than the joy she gets from showing off her body and spreading her legs. You must act the part. That includes using what remains of your onmyo prowess to enhance your appeal."

Fuku seemed to dutifully note this, as her eyes flickered for a second time. The order wormed its way through her spirit, all thanks to the little soul ball in Maria's hands.

"I see you understand. We can proceed. For your third and final act, I want you to sear into your brain that what I'm about to do to the canvas that is your body defines you. Let it be a road map to your future as a prostitute."

Once again, the fallen mage barked acceptance.

It was done. Shadow-stepping one last time, Maria appeared behind Fuku, crouched, and fisted the newly minted whore's hole. She earned a wince and minor pained grunt for the effort - more to do with Fuku's puppet state than how it felt. Releasing the shiri-kodama and removing her hand, Maria watched a gasping Fuku collapse forward with her arse in the air. In her mind's eyes, she already saw the beautiful calligraphy planned for those pasty cheeks. Eagerly, she removed a pin from her cape and scanned for the perfect place to start.

\-------

September, 1613. Six months since the day of her defeat to Maria. It sometimes boggled Fuku's mind to think of how much her life had changed in that short span of time.

Back when this ordeal started, she assumed the rest of her body would curry the most interest. She was wrong. If she could keep a running tally, she knew the marks for use of her mouth would fill her face as fully as all those fragrant cumshots baking on her skin. 

She knew why. Every time she spoke.

"Low rates! Play with my huge boobs! Fuck my loose ass! If you use my hot pussy once, you'll never want again!"

They hated her voice. Everything came out with the cool collected confidence of a woman that took great joy in repulsing ladies and teasing cocks. _In English_. It didn't matter that she said it poorly, rambling on with the most bland sleep-inducing monotone she could muster. Though it didn't help. After many months of marketing her wares for low bidders, she had the air of one who _refused_ to acknowledge her native language.

She also had the air of one who never scrubbed her hairy pits or wiped between her legs. What she would give to take a nice hot spring bath to wash the stink off. Standing street-side, she reeked of spunk and sweat - both hers and from the many pairs of balls she expertly cleaned with her tongue. Time had not been kind, and neither had her collection of shiri-kodama curses, which kept her cunt dripping wet like the cum oozing down her chest.

"Orokana baishunpu wa modoru," Fuku overheard. Just as they hated her English, she hated how their insults gave her a messy twinge of pleasure. She didn't _like_ putting herself on display. She didn't _like_ the disgusting spectacle she had become. Her body did. That made all the difference.

And what a body Maria had left her with. Fortunately for Fuku, her brain drain of kanji saved her the pain of fully 'appreciating' her parting gift tattoos. Across her voluptuous chest read 呆福. Or to put it in words she could understand if anyone bothered to tell her: fool's fortune. Her exposed hips bore the slightly longer 呆人有呆福, or fools have fortune. That both tattoos contained her name might have meant something if she still remembered how to spell her own name.

But of course, the worst of the lot spread across her thick wide ass. Her seductive butt wagging stretched the lines of those characters, one to each cheek. Without the comfort of cover, everyone saw her bold claim for the tight window into her shiri-kodama. It advertised lust, ease of access, an uncommon eagerness to have her soul coated with fresh hot loads. It also served as her brand new _full_ name. The roughly translated phrase - 福見, to see good fortune - already had naughty implications in its original vernacular.

It took on new meaning for one accustomed to Fuku's new proficiency for English. Though spared the same reading as her countrymen, she might have preferred to hear it as they did rather than deal with the pangs of private shame she felt every time she heard it spoken aloud.

A sensation forced on her anew as she let loose with another attempt to entice would-be buyers. "If you're looking for a good time, all you need to do is Fukumi."

Too vividly for comfort, she imagined one of Sir Anjin's cruder fellow sailors responding with a hearty 'I'll fuku you!' In some respects, she wished such a man would come. At least then she might be able to carry a conversation with something other than satin sheets. At least then her Maria-scripted double entendres might have more than an audience of one. Among her people, she earned only dirty looks, lusting grins and mocking chuckles.

Which left her falling back on that one true language all busty whores the world over could rely on to tease out a quick buck: her tits. 

She sometimes hated how much she loved the sound of her twin ofuda flapping in the wind. They had such a soothing slickness to go with their gentle drag on her trapped nipples. Of all the changes wrought on her by Maria, this one brought the most joy to make up for her shame. They calmed. They pleased. More than once, she looked in the mirror to prepare for a full day of whoring and just plain forgot they weren't a normal part of her breasts. They had long since become true extensions of her self, no different than the teats they hid.

But those were idle thoughts. She had a job to do. Spotting a mark about to pass, she stepped up and hoisted her lewd beauties into view. "What do you think? Would you like to play with them?"

"Aho, ottoite-kure-yo!"

Undeterred by the man slapping her tits out of his face, she shouted after him. "You will regret not accepting my offer! I have the softest pair in Japan!"

"Anata jishin no fakku," was all Fuku heard as the man walked off. She stamped her foot in dismay. To have to put on her suggestive shows and urge men to use her grated on her nerves enough. To be denied like any other lowly prostitute made her feel... feel...

"Oooooh." Her legs gave out. Another orgasm. Right then. Right there. It dropped her to her haunches and forced her knees open, while the front drape of her fundoshi fluttered and fell to a rest against the ground. She shifted the cloth aside.

Already, her sensitive folds sopped with untold desire. Dancing her fingers across the crab tattoo just above her waist, she spread her lower lips and cooed. "Please. I need a man. You can have me for free!"

Unbelievable though it might seem, as she peered up and down the street, she found... no takers. Nobody. Perhaps, she reasoned, none of them grasped her generous offer. It assuaged her ego better than the alternative. Regardless, she found the fence against her back a suitable support for her sudden needs. Her bountiful bosom rose and feel with hot ragged breaths as she bit her lower lip. No going back now. Her thumb entered her aching slit.

"Fuku Mi!"

And popped right back out the second she heard her name. She groaned in agonized defeat. She only requested release. Why could she not get that much?! Fixing herself, she stood at attention with palms to hips, elbows out for the mystery woman who called her name. Wandering hands left a pleasant wriggle up her spine as they felt her up. Especially her thighs. In her agitated stated, Fuku gushed to a brush against her quim.

"Hmm. Yes. Easy indeed." 

Was that. Could it be. English?! That alone got Fuku hot and bothered. Nevermind the sensations aroused by getting pawed like a piece of fine meat. That path of touch served as clues to her admirer's gaze. The dark bands on her arm. The equally grotesque 犬 dog mark on her forehead. Both tattoos proclaimed for the woman that this slutty fool had a criminal record. Yes, a false record assigned to her by Maria, but one that all who met her took as a truth worth punishing with the most vigorous and depraved fucking they could give her. Fresh sweat beading down her body in the midday sun, she awaited a final verdict. 

She got it, when the woman lifted her arm and brushed back wild armpit hair to find Fuku's hidden message. A hum of approval from the would-be client brought a sigh of relief from the onmyo slut, dropping at least one heavy burden off her chest. 

"I see you possess the kishobori," the woman noted. Fuku's scrunched confusion elicited an amused chuckle, and clarification. "Ah yes, I forgot what Lady Maria did to your frail mind. I meant the vow tattoo with my name."

Fuku froze and looked at her, stunned. The day had finally come. The promise, fulfilled. As her titty ofuda flapped, she stammered, "Y-You're-"

"That's right. I'm Okuni, and I'm putting together a troupe that could use a fool."


	2. Filthy Ronin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1602, Lady Yachiko and Maria trick Ginchiyo into abandoning the Tachibana clan and her husband Muneshige. As part of this plot, they use her shiri-kodama to turn her from an honorable samurai proud of her clan to a filthy, disgraceful ronin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot longer to write this chapter, and I'm pretty sure it's worse than the first chapter. I took the liberty of taking elements from the Samurai Warriors franchise to use in this setting.

It wasn't normal for a concubine to summon a wife. But then, very little counted as normal anymore. After the Battle of Sekigahara, the Tachibana clan lost much of its former glory. Muneshige wandered as a ronin, serving those who still had power. The clan lost any land to call its own, taken by the Tokugawa shogunate as punishment. Ginchiyo spent her days in a Buddhist temple to the south of Yanagawa Castle while her family's day to day operations remained a mystery. Muneshige seemed to prefer his concubine running these affairs.

She didn't question it. How could she, when his sacrifice of status allowed her to remain in Yanagawa as her health declined? True, she felt much better in recent months, but they all knew she might take a turn for the worse after two full years fighting her illness.

What she _did_ question - silently - was the need to meet with Muneshige's concubine in full armor. Why ask her to wear these trappings from times long passed? The concubine knew she had little strength left to bear arms. Ceremony? What ceremony could require Muneshige's wife to appear so attired for battle? Her mind started to drift toward the absurd. Perhaps an ambush awaited her, or the concubine found herself captive and seized a chance to ask for aid. She ran through the gamut of scenarios that might play out until she settled on one solid truth.

None of these thoughts mattered. In the end, the concubine asked for her to arrive in this manner. She would obey.

Much of her dimensions had changed in the two years since she last fought. Her breastplate pressed her boobs against her chest, each step chafing her poor abused nipples. She stopped only once within the halls to relieve their throbbing anguish by blowing a cool jet of air in the breastplate's gap. Red strings on her thigh guards strained as their old metal creaked. Her leather pants molested her loins, their tightness eliciting a pained frown. They reminded her of why Muneshige kept a concubine in the first place: she was barren.

In a time when they needed heirs to continue the blood line, her own inadequacy shamed Muneshige and the Tachibana in ways that only another woman could cure. Only pleasure. Only useless, selfish pleasure. That's all she could expect from her pitiable sex. Between her legs hid a mooch, eager to steal away her husband's seed and offer nothing for him in return. She could not fault Muneshige for taking a concubine, for he had a duty to his clan which she already failed by way of her body.

"Tachibana Ginchiyo."

She looked up. Her servant guide awaited at the entrance to the concubine's audience chamber. The servant's terse call suggested urgency. No doubt the concubine had important matters of family to attend. Matters Ginchiyo had long since left behind at her husband's bidding. Not wanting to trouble the servant further, she closed the gap and entered.

"Lady Yachiko," Ginchiyo said.

Where Ginchiyo withered, Yachiko clearly thrived. She wore the finest silk kimono, all black and embroidered with a variety of flowers. The white nagajuban beneath Yachiko's kimono looked equally impressive for one who served a 'lowly' ronin. Even the tobacco pipe in her hand expressed elegance, wafting wisps of smoke while Yachiko raised it to her lips and took a puff.

These details should have piqued Ginchiyo's warrior instincts. They didn't. Two years of disuse left her wondering but quiet.

A sitting Yachiko smiled and nodded. "Welcome to my home."

For several long, dragging seconds, the women looked at each other. Watched each other. Assessed. The idiosyncrasies of their behavior betrayed discomfort from different levels. While Yachiko stared, ceaseless, unrelenting, Ginchiyo shifted her weight side to side and blinked. As time ticked by, Ginchiyo's habits became more frequent and pronounced. Slight scowl to the left side of her lip. Crinkling brow. Heat blushed to the surface of her skin, its scent fuming from her meager cleavage.

It was a war of wills. A war Ginchiyo... lost. The outcome would have differed in her prime. Before becoming barren. Before Sekigahara. Before Tokugawa took control. A soft whimper barely escaped, loud enough for the concubine to notice, smirk, and seize the moment.

"Aren't you going to greet your host?" Yachiko asked. "Or did you lose your manners at the temple?"

"Oh, y-yes. I'm terribly sorry."

Settling down on her knees, Ginchiyo folded her hands into her lap and bowed. Her forehead pressed into wood. In that state, she waited. And waited. And waited. She sensed the relish in Yachiko's silent gaze, how the concubine savored her moment of power over Muneshige's wife. Ostensibly, what Yachiko requested and earned was an apology. Anyone beyond them could be forgiven for seeing it as such. Among the women, they knew its real purpose. Dominance. Superiority. The line between wife and concubine, abandoned. Their attendant powers had effectively switched. Ginchiyo was the subject. Yachiko, her lord.

"You may rise," Yachiko allowed.

"Thank you, Lady Yachiko." Ginchiyo sat upright. She remained kneeling, of course. Yachiko had not given her permission to do otherwise.

Nor would she. "I am pleased to see you again in your combat regalia, even if it looks like it no longer fits properly."

Ginchiyo stewed at the suggestion but held her tongue. "Yes. I did not have time to get it adjusted before setting out to meet with you."

"You understand the importance of my affairs. I appreciate that. Far too many of my servants lack the same commitment. If only I could keep you around to set a good example."

Ginchiyo grit her teeth. She was being poked, prodded, tested. Why? She couldn't ask. She already 'admitted' to insulting Lady Yachiko by failing to properly greet her. For now, she had to simply smile and play along. "It would be an honor to spend my remaining days setting such an example. Unfortunately, I believe my status as Muneshige's wife would undermine the effort. A fellow servant would be a much better example."

"Are you offering?" Yachiko teased, delighting in Ginchiyo's visible disgust as she changed topics before Ginchiyo could give a proper retort. "Enough idle chatter. I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you to come here in your armor."

Yachiko gestured to her side. Ginchiyo's eyes followed. As the door slid open, a woman with long blonde hair and the same pasty complexion as Sir Anjin stepped inside and approached.

Hand grasping the hilt of her sword, Ginchiyo read the woman's body for any sign of threat. She found... nothing. Not even when the woman reached into her blouse and pulled out a rolled up letter.

"This is Maria, from Spain," Yachiko explained. "She comes with a message I think you need to read."

Cautiously, Ginchiyo reached out and took the letter. Its seal bore the Tokugawa mon. She knew instantly what that meant: destruction or salvation. She wouldn't gamble on which. Letter in hand, she unfurled its length and read.

\----------------------

Lady Yachiko,

It may please you to know that after much discussion, Tokugawa Ieyasu is willing to reinstate Muneshige as a daimyo with a small fief to the far north. There is one condition: Tachibana Ginchiyo must be exiled from the Tachibana clan and made to wander as a ronin in Muneshige's place. Ieyasu will only relent if Ginchiyo willingly accepts these terms. If Ginchiyo accepts, the messenger of this letter will ensure these terms are honored before reporting back.

Kiyomasa Kato

\----------------------

Ginchiyo stared at the letter, flustered. Truly, she had no words. The implications were clear, both in Kato's writing and the armor she wore at Yachiko's request. From running the Tachibana clan before Muneshige, to training her own maids in the art of war, all the way up to defending Yanagawa Castle, her reputation - no, her very _existence_ \- ruined Ieyasu's ideal of samurai women as docile pets for their husbands. Ieyasu wanted to punish her. Yachiko intended to honor his wish. Faced with this revelation, Ginchiyo had one answer.

Refuse.

Rising _without_ permission, Ginchiyo turned her back to Lady Yachiko, Maria, and stormed toward the exit. She would not stand for this farce. She would not stand for this miscarriage of justice. She would not-

"Ginchiyo!" Yachiko called after.

Ginchiyo spun, raging. "You expect me to agree to his demands? _I'm_ the blood heir of the Tachibana. Not Muneshige, and certainly not you. I led the Tachibana for five years. I fought countless battles for our clan's pride. I-"

"Are you the extent of your pride in the Tachibana?!" Yachiko shouted. "You speak of our clan's pride and honor, yet when you're called upon to sacrifice yourself for your clan and husband, you balk."

"But. But."

"Muneshige became a ronin for you. He allowed you to live in the luxury of a temple while he sought to restore the family name with his deeds. How could a woman who claims to cherish her clan allow its leader to remain in such a state when she could do something to save him?!"

"You don't understand. My illness. I can't."

Difficult as it was, Yachiko buried her grin in a cross scowl. She needed it. She had Ginchiyo on the defensive. The high and mighty lightning queen's rage had slipped into fear and despair, evident as Ginchiyo bit her lower lip and hung her head lower and lower. She could sense it. One little nudge would break her resolve.

"How dare you hide behind your sickness. The few weeks or months you have left do not compare to the rest of Muneshige's life! After two years of comfort, it's time for you to give him something in return. It's the least you can do to honor his sacrifice. If you do not, you're nothing but a spoiled, entitled stain on the history of the Tachibana!"

Ginchiyo sighed in defeat. She... she had nothing left. Nothing she could use to defend herself. Slumping her shoulders, she returned to her prior spot before Lady Yachiko. "You're right. You're absolutely right. It was wrong of me to put myself before the good of the clan. I see that now."

"Does this mean you agree to Ieyasu's terms?"

Ginchiyo nodded. "Yes. I will do anything it takes."

Yachiko doubted Ginchiyo's sincerity. But, soon that pesky detail would mean very little. Maria only needed a free and clear opening. She had it. Now, to lower the last of her long-time rival's guard. "Maria will assess your armor and fitness for the ronin lifestyle. Do not attack her. Doing so will void the agreement."

At that command, Ginchiyo relaxed her grip on her katana and shifted into a poise expected from one of the Tachibana clan's past rulers and greatest warriors. She stood still, firm, facing Lady Yachiko while the spaniard ran playful fingers up her arm. Sharp knocking on her breastplate clearly mocked her with its dull timbre. The vibrations themselves ripped through her bosom and set her wincing over a twinge of pain across her raw teats. Yet, the first change arrived when Maria cut the white cape loose. It fell to Ginchiyo's feet, leaving her barer than she felt even when wearing her summer finery.

Then, something unexpected happened. Hands grabbed her ponytail and yanked her head back. She tried not to show weakness while Maria brought those raven locks to her nose and sniffed.

"That's some very nice incense you're wearing," Maria complimented. Then quickly cut her down. "Too bad it's more likely to reek of horse dung in your new life."

Ginchiyo didn't dignify her with a response. Suffering this test did not require one. She had only to keep her composure while Maria rubbed her sides and descended. Down to hips. Down to shins. She felt Maria grope upward into her thighs and squeeze. Glancing down, she grimaced. Surely no test needed such an intimate touch. Those fingers brushed ever closer to places they should not go. She moved to stop it.

"Ginchiyo!"

Her gaze darted to Yachiko. "Yes?"

"Is that any way to address your better? You know very well that as an exiled ronin, you must accept your place beneath me. It's a natural and expected part of our deal with Ieyasu."

Ginchiyo grumbled. "I'm sorry, Lady Yachiko. Please forgive this lowly woman for not giving you the respect you rightfully deserve. I promise to chANGE-"

Eyes wide, mouth open, Ginchiyo popped up on her tiptoes to Maria venturing in that one sacred spot she hoped to preserve. Those digits molested her, rubbed fiercely over thin leather with a strength that really did not fit a mere messenger. She stifled a moan and clamped down on her scabbard for strength. She thought to berate Maria for the crude invasion. Yachiko once again robbed her of the chance.

"You were saying, Ginchiyo?"

"I promise to change my wAYS. It will take TIME for me to GRASP my new s-station. I appreciate your p-p-p-patience with me as I FIND it within me to acknowledge you as the new L-Lady of the Tttttachibana."

Through Maria's strokes, pokes and pinches, Ginchiyo weathered ministrations that secretly soaked the crotch of her pants. Why did she permit this? Why allow this farcical inspection for the promise of _letting_ her live the rest of her life in disgraced squalor? Why would the Tokugawa send-

"Ah!" she gasped.

Pure unbridled shock coursed through her veins. Running on instinct, she clapped her palms to each side of her butt and grimaced as something big and thick rammed through her virgin hole. Her knees caved inward. Her thighs quivered. Whatever the spaniard shoved inside dug deeper. Ever deeper. It parted her from within like no warrior's blade could. At least there was honor in being impaled by a sword. At least that pain brought some measure of respect. This brand of pain brought nothing but shame - especially if anyone learned how she let it happen.

"What is the meaning of this!" Ginchiyo bellowed in anguish.

"As I told you, Maria requires a thorough review of your body," Yachiko noted. "Think of her actions as a gift. With her aid, you will know how much your tight rear can withstand before you use it to beg for coin."

Cold to hot, white to crimson, Ginchiyo's face flushed with blood. She seethed on Maria's arm. Like a puppet. An angry, pathetic puppet. Stuffed, invaded, she sat upon its length to the elbow. It filled her in disgusting ways she never wanted to be filled. Left to its mercy, she rose higher and whimpered. "This isn't funny! Or pleasant! Release me or I will strike you both down."

"My! You're quick to abandon your own promises," Yachiko said. "Did it ever occur to you that there might be a higher purpose to this treatment? Not everything behind the actions of a lady such as myself has to be explained to a lowly ronin."

Maria pulled out.

Ginchiyo fell. The sheer force left her shuddering in a pile on the ground. Her poor, sore anus throbbed. A carnal mix of relief and want pervaded the puckered ring. It - and she - begged for an end to the aching _and_ for something to spread her gaping maw all at once. Something was missing in her. It had to be. Never before had she felt as though she lost something more precious than her father's prized Raikiri sword.

When Maria walked around her, squatted and presented a small glowing ball in her line of sight, she knew. Its radiant shimmer betrayed hidden parts of her. Despite its absurdity, one myth properly described what she saw.

"My... my shiri-kodama."

Maria flaunted her possession of that sacred orb. Within its many layers lurked everything Ginchiyo. Courage. Pride. Tenacity. The soul of a true samurai warrior through and through rested in the palm of a blonde foreigner who held it like a cheap trinket from some rundown junk shop. As the spaniard went to join Yachiko's side, the Tachibana's new ruling lady gave an approving nod.

"I'm terribly sorry to have kept Maria's purpose from you," Yachiko lied, "but you see... I knew you would not allow her to do her duty if you had warning."

"Was molesting me part of her duty?!" Ginchiyo challenged. Yachiko rose to meet it.

Maria, in all her wisdom, stopped her. With a raised arm, she placated the new Lady of the Tachibana and stepped forward. With the clearest, sternest expression she could muster, she answered. "Yes. Drawing out your shiri-kodama involves pushing your limits until I can see your true self. Rest assured, I would not debase myself with the likes of you if not to carry out my duty."

Ginchiyo seemed to buy the excuse. Luckily. Maria wasn't sure she could put on a more convincing act. Unlike her other conquests, this quarry needed to think she asked for her fate. She needed to think her new path in life came by choice, that all the inequities and humiliations to come served a higher cause than herself. Such delusions ensured the sweetest suffering for a samurai woman who would otherwise yearn for revenge.

A few strokes to the shiri-kodama made Ginchiyo stand. The puppet and her strings regained a certain composure that the tired, used Ginchiyo would have failed to offer. What little energy the ex-samurai had left went into her display before a good Tachibana lady eager to remake her.

Yachiko had a perfect idea of where to start. "That armor. Not only does it no longer fit, but no exiled ronin would wear such finely crafted equipment. It belongs to the clan anyway. Strip her bare."

Another wave of Maria's hand started the process. Greaves, thigh guards, wrist knots, waist plates, the lesser pieces went first. Tiny fragments of Ginchiyo's pride sounded with the clinking of metal on metal at her feet. Few people could ever know the value of her ancestral wear, how the intricate embellishments and scratched up contours equally detailed its long glorious history. This armor saw great battles. It served centuries of lords. Its loss meant more than bared skin. She was, to put it bluntly, discarding her birthright. Turning her back on her own clan. Because Lady Yachiko told her to do so. And she obeyed, all too quickly for one who spent so many years shouting her clan's praises.

Once her virginal white uwa-obi fluttered into the armor pile, the real undressing could begin.

Pick, pick, picking at the knots binding pauldrons to breastplate, Ginchiyo felt them slip apart. Freedom, as her bosom breathed fresh air. Looseness brought release for her poor aching teats. No longer cramped, confined, trapped, they spread to open spots. Of course, none of this comfort mattered compared to her sharp pangs of shame. Knots undone. All she had to do was let go. With a gesture from Maria, she did. All that shining armor hit the ground with a thud. The remaining pieces slipped off easy as a baita's kimono.

And so Ginchiyo, queen of valor, lady of thunder, _the_ Southern Fury, stood naked before her Lady Yachiko. She grasped the sheath of her sword with such force, as if that vestige of warrior days contained her last bits of dignity. In her mind, the blade covered what eyes could plainly see. It gave her strength while Yachiko gave her a look, followed her curves, judged her fitness... and laughed.

Her laughter cut deep. It groped her arms and calves. It flicked her tender peachy nipples. It weighed her boobs, the handfuls failing to elicit either the raw sexual power of a larger pair or the grace of a smaller size. Caught between fair and filthy worlds, Ginchiyo's breasts belonged precisely nowhere. Neither did her cunt. The tiny slit buried itself between her thighs. It retreated like a coward on the field of battle, letting an army of thick dark pubes shield it from view. It offered no pride. Only weakness.

Behind a sharp gaze and hand-hidden smirk, Yachiko found the woman lacking. " _This_ is the great and powerful Ginchiyo Tachibana? This short, weak girl with no charm or muscles to speak of? Explain yourself."

Ginchiyo shrank. Her lady demanded answers. She had them, in one clear and simple word: illness. Illness left her bedridden. Without practice, she rusted like any other disused blade. She merely had to speak the truth. It would be so easy. So simple. So right. Yet, she sensed a deeper truth. The lady did not want honesty. She wanted a lie. With a single beautifully perverse lie, Yachiko would have another helping of humility to feed her ego. 

She couldn't do it. She _wouldn't_ do it. The very idea of speaking those words which gurgled in her throat and rotted in her brain went against everything she stood for. The foreign phrases forced upon her through her shiri-kodama would never cross the threshold of her mouth. As a Tachibana, she would never... never...

She would oblige. Lips trembling despite herself, she answered precisely as Yachiko wished. "I... Iiiiii..."

"Yes?"

"I'm a **lazy asshole**! I stopped giving a single _fuck_ about staying in shape when I realized I could get my clan to do the fighting for me. All I had to do was lie on my back and take Muneshige's huge prick in my little girly twat. I would've had it easy."

This seemed to please the Lady. Another amused chuckle. Another smile. "Oh my, such coarse language. This is so unlike you."

Wide-eyed, Ginchiyo struggled for control. Her shiri-kodama. It buzzed and glowed in Maria's palm, crying for release while its twinkly innards changed. As did Ginchiyo. Her soft lips scowled. Her high brows fell and scrunched. Her nostrils flared. By the time her brown eyes narrowed into vile squints, the changes wrought upon her face left her of a truly wretched looking woman. Then, in the bitchiest of tones, she let her curses fly.

"Unlike me? Unlike me?! You've never seen the real me until now. All these stupid bastards thought I cared about the clan, when all I really cared about was being a pampered pussy. I would be right where you are now if my goddamn womb hadn't decided to be a piece of shit."

Such cruel and untrue thoughts wounded her Tachibana pride. They wouldn't stop. Simply wouldn't stop. Her newly minted betters saw to it. Thuggish and crass for all to see, her body language shifted as one hand to her cocked hip and the other raised high implied a haughty bravado she very much had not earned.

"Ginchiyo," Yachiko began, "don't tell me the _only_ reason you married Muneshige was to pass your duties on to him and live a life of luxury. What would your father think."

"Fuck 'im. That old asshole shoulda known better than to put me in charge. If he hadn't kicked it when I was six, I woulda been whorin and boozin the clan broke."

 _Stop. **STOP!**_ the solemn voice within Ginchiyo's head cried. Despite her soul's screaming, she kept the damned satisfied scowl of a woman basking in the glow of her own putrescence.

Much as she enjoyed dallying with the fallen Ginchiyo, Maria had other thoughts. Deeper thoughts. Darker thoughts. The plan required movement, and so without any signs of it, she pressed the issue. "Lady Yachiko. As you can see, I prepared the canvas of her shiri-kodama for your use. Do you approve?"

Yachiko nodded, smirking, beside herself with the glee of a thousand lifetimes' worth of victory over that one nasty thorn in her side. "Mmm. Yes. It's a start, but the look and words of a contemptible woman mean little if she does not act the part. I can't have tales of her noble exploits leading my husband to seek her out."

"That, my lady, is yours to change as you please." In a single smooth glide, Maria moved to the lady's side and dropped the shiri-kodama into her waiting hands.

Yachiko's eyes all but glowed. There, nestled in her palms, was power. Ultimate power. On little more than a whim, she could set her rival turned puppet dancing for her amusement. Such joy flooded her naughty heart, as she gazed upon Muneshige's sneering ex. Every ounce of white hot rage fumed from Ginchiyo under a lovely veneer of bitchery. None would mistake this scum for a lady. Soon, their disgust would not stop at mere looks. Letting the ball swirl, Yachiko laced in commands to her heart's content.

She had only to think it. With one clear mental image, the picture-pathetic scoundrel started her journey into the filthy ronin of Yachiko's dreams.

The puppet's fingers played along bare skin, one tickling along the rim of her sex while the other flicked one of those raw red teats. The ex-Tachibana simmered in sexual frustration. Biting her lower lip, she sniffed the scent of her rising lust with her long pointed nose. A good, noble woman would have blushed with shame as she spread her lower folds for display to a Lady. Not this version of her. The act of brazenly defying these norms made her slit nice and wet. Suffering the sting of this performance, Ginchiyo found herself open to a single strange word spilling from her nasty lips. 

"Mmmmuginho."

無誾法. Her new name. She mulled its meaning over in despair. Sandwiched between Mu and Ho, Gin - the one part of her birthright she was allowed to keep - burned shame upon her warrior spirit by its placement. Gin. Respect. Before this travesty of change, her name stood for the respect of a thousand generations. Yachiko evidently saw fit to purge her of that honor just as she had purged her from her own clan... but not without a cruel reminder.

Muginho would wander these lands, bearing a name which announced her as a blight upon its people. No respect for the law. For family. For the Tokugawa. Samurai ways. Everywhere she went, she would proclaim her desire to enrage and offend whomever she could. Common decency escaped this filthy ronin bitch. Her name said as much.

Thus branded, Muginho glared at the new Lady of the Tachibana with dirty indignation. "When the fuck do I get to leave?"

"Now," Yachiko answered, "would be a good time. My attendants will see to your remaining needs before you set out on your new journey."

"About time. Thought I was gonna have to spray my pussy all over before I left."

Watching the lithe ex-Tachibana sway her pretty ass toward the exit, Maria almost forgot to leave her with a final command. She called after, barely in time. "Oh, Muginho! Do be sure to give blowjobs to the _Lady of the Tachibana's_ male servants before you leave the grounds. I promised them the mouth of the nastiest slut I could find as a reward for their help in sending you on your way."

"Yes, my Lady!" Muginho shouted back.

As her rival disappeared down the hall, Yachiko sighed. One part pleasure, one part pain. "I would have liked to keep her at my side, Maria. Imagine the fun of making that woman lick my rear and kiss my feet."

"That is not her role to play in my ally's schemes, Lady Yachiko." To that point, Maria removed a jar from a pouch on her belt and handed it to the lady. "You own her shiri-kodama. You can twist and wound her from afar, then flaunt your possession of her right in front of your new husband. Let that be satisfaction enough."

Maria was right. Taking the jar, Yachiko dropped Ginchiyo's shiri-kodama through the top and admired this offered treasure. Brown. Glazed. Tea leaf design. With four handles to choose from, she held it aloft and re-placed the mystic seal from the famed Rengeon-in Temple. Just like that, she had Ginchiyo. Forever. Nothing could escape the confines of this lacquered prison. Best of all, she could display it. Right there. Right by her side. Wherever she went, she could place the jar like a lovely trinket she deeply admired without anyone knowing its true nature.

Lost in these thrills, Yachiko almost didn't hear the Spaniard who brought her these lovely gifts.

"Now that we've completed our work, wouldn't you agree this is a more delightful fate for Ginchiyo than slow death by poison?"

"Yes, but there was a special joy in watching her blame her womb for her failure to conceive. Will I ever see her again?"

"Perhaps... though by that point, you may not recognize her as the pathetic woman before you."

\----------------

Eleven. Years.

For the past eleven years, Muginho spent her days and nights in shameful squalor. Never aging. Never scarring. Never dying. What few wounds she received, healed in a matter of days. This was not the life she expected when she agreed to Ieyasu's terms. She thought she would limp and cough and shiver to a slow death by illness within months of her exile from the Tachibana. She thought her life of ill-repute would end mercifully swift.

Instead, she found herself here. As healthy as she was filthy. Squatting, and waiting, for a pair of men to leave the nearest bar. She planned it out perfectly. The moment they stumbled out, she would ambush them from the shadows and like any scoundrel, make off with their money pouches. If lucky, she might get a nice bottle of sake for her trouble. It was an easy plan. A simple plan. A plan cowardly enough to get what she needed while sating the urges of her lost shiri-kodama. She had only to wait.

 _This_ time, for the first time ever, she just might have succeeded if she hadn't eyed a much better prize: a woman. Slender, curvy and above all beautiful, the kimono-clad lady ticked off traits required to change her role from patient crook to disgusting pervert. Driven by forces beyond her control, Muginho leapt from the alley and grabbed the pretty thing.

"Aiiiiie!" 

If it were up to her, Ginchiyo would have flinched at the sound. Not Muginho. Muginho grinned as she ripped open the lady's kimono and fondled her sweet, sweet boobs. "Don't be like that. We're both girls. Besides, I've earned the right to play with 'em after puttin' up with my bitty manly ones."

"Someone heeeeelp!"

Leering down the lady's body, Muginho took a nice whiff of her perfume. In her whole tenure as a ronin, her victims offered so many varieties. Rose. Lavender. This little number came in cherry blossom. And what a fitting scent, too, for Muginho most certainly knew how to appreciate such a fragile beauty. The lady would know it too, after Muginho's hungry fingers were through with her. Giving that delectable bosom leave to rest, she trailed downward, savoring those shivers she earned.

"Stop fidgetin' and let me fuck ya already. You're gonna love it."

"I didn't ask for this!" The lady whined.

"Tough titties. Now hold still so I can have a go at your cunt."

All the sniffling and squirming in the world couldn't stop Muginho's body on its mission. In the time since her exile, enough strength returned to subdue fair maidens and force them into any perversions required to please her accursed shiri-kodama. At least, that's what would happen if she reached the next step. Somehow, some way, she always failed. Today would be no different. Just as she reached the lady's wonderland of thick dark pubes, a hand grasped the hood of her tattered white cape and yanked. Hard. 

She stumbled backward. Her feet tried to catch up. Toe heel toe heel toe heel. To her good fortune, she _didn't_ land with her ass in a bucket or impaled on a pole. This time. This time, she regained her composure. As she did, she braced for the lady's saviors to respond in exactly the same fashion as all men and women who got a good look at her.

With laughter. Biting, vicious laughter.

Muginho stood before them, pathetic and largely naked for their judgment. Tattoos of leaves in the style of her old armor rolled from wrists to shoulders to the sides of her chest, mocking her with the memory of protection she no longer possessed. Their presence framed her bosom, its smallness, while making her arms look slim and weak. Despite their dark blue background, her massive tufts of wild armpit hair showed keenly even in the dimmest light - though not as well as those long expanses on her legs.

Her belly bore worse. A pair of snakes coiled around 不毛. Fumō. Or, in the English terms, barren. Sterile. The kanji flaunted her womb's weakness surrounded by a creature known far and wide as a symbol for fertility. In this world of 'tradition', of blood lines and 'good wives', the dark stain over her womb assured that no man would be foolish enough to try and _save_ a depraved creature like Muginho. Let alone the private shame of her former life.

Yet, still, she carried more. Of course, Yachiko left her with the 犬 marking on her forehead required for many criminals, and the name of a strange woman on her arm, but one piece completed the tableau in secret. Had the men stopped to peer between the rips of Muginho's cape, they would have found one more tattoo emblazoned across her back.

A dick. A giant, throbbing, veiny dick. It jutted upward within a circle made of fine pubic hairs and oozing male cum, imitating the style of a noble samurai's kamon. On good samurai, these crests represented allegiance to one's samurai clan. On Muginho, it insulted the whole system of lords and samurai. It flaunted an allegiance not to a master, but to the cocks she loved so well and what they had to offer her eager mouth. That Yachiko permitted her to hide it with a cape showed mercy, sparing her the pain of every waking second spent on relieving members put before her.

At least, Ginchiyo chose to see it as an act of mercy. The ugly truth of Yachiko wanting her to live a life lower than a whore crept in too often as she swore and stole and molested her way across the land.

Clothes - or lack of them - completed the woman. A simple sarashi wrapped around her breasts, loose and sloppy enough to expose her dark nipples. Below, a white sash obi tied in the traditional samurai style topped a set of kusazuri waist plates which did more to enhance her bareness than conceal it. Its gaps gave a clear lines of sight to her pussy and ass, the former covered by a maebari paper talisman meant to seal it from use. If one looked closely at its writing, they would have read warnings for men not to waste their seed on something as 'worthless' as her slit.

For that, they had her other free holes.

From a distance, these features might have come across as her most striking. Up close, nothing could eclipse her filth and stench. Never shaving, never bathing, Muginho reeked of sweat, spunk and sake. Hers, and of men who had their way with her. It fumed off her like the ungodly aura of a feral dog - which, many might say, matched the way she looked.

Her greasy, messy hair puffed out from her head in wild waves down her back and shoulders. On hotter days, she thought of what a blessing Maria's jests would have been compared to its trapped fragrance. Buzzing flies brought forth plenty of ridicule and shame for the filthy ronin, but knowing she had her natural, collected scent to blame made it all the worse. 

Smears of dirt and mud joined her loser's mane. Cheeks, chest, back, thighs, every part of her body had space for the same grime encrusted under her nails. One would have thought rains over the years could wash it away. No such luck. Sealed in place by darker powers, these features of Ginchiyo's torment warded off water like a holy gift not meant for someone as vile and tainted as her. 

She looked and smelled beastly. She heard about it often in shouts, whispers and everything in between when she ventured among people. And so, like a beast, Muginho snarled at the men who disrupted the 'fun' her twisted shiri-kodama forced her to pursue. "Hey, I found her first. That's _my_ whore to fuck!"

"You're not one to talk about whores," one of the men snuck within their chuckles. With their wall of muscle in the way, the poor lady accosted by this lowly Muginho scampered to safety.

"Damnit! You assholes let 'er get away. Looks like I'm gonna have to teach you a lesson."

 _Oh no,_ Ginchiyo cried within.

Oh yes. Muginho's hand clasped the hilt of her katana. Its blade screeched out of the scabbard fastened to her obi, taking painful lengths which hammered her poor ears. When it finally, _finally_ emerged in full, she pointed it at the men to reveal... a rusty piece of junk. Its bitter red edge threatened to fall apart at a light breeze, nevermind against an enemy's flesh. Fortunately for the sword, it never made contact. By design.

Her thrust toward the men went slow. Very, very slow. Its timing worked with however long her foes needed to dodge. As always, they stepped aside, stole the sword from her grip and elbowed her in the back. She dropped instantly. Writhing on the ground, she whimpered at their feet.

"What is _with_ this woman? I know women suck at fighting, but I didn't think they were this bad."

"Who cares?" said the other, dropping Muginho's crappy weapon. "We stopped her, that's all that matters. Let's go before I can't wash her stink off me."

As the men headed for the bridge, she stewed at their careless insults. Her blood boiled. Both versions of her. Ginchiyo. Muginho. Body and mind took equal offense. She couldn't let these... these... these _bastards_ get away with it. Yachiko might have destroyed her prowess as a samurai, but she had spirit all the same. She had to take a stand.

And so she did. Forcing herself up, she shouted after the men. "Hey! We're not finished yet."

They turned. "Oh, I think we are, whore."

"The name is Muginho!"

"Whore, dog, Muginho, whatever you call yourself. We don't care."

She scowled. Huffing fury through her nostrils, booze on her breath, Muginho poured her samurai spirit into her best attack. That was one thing Yachiko could never take away. Her power. Sure, 'air of desperation' in this case meant hot sweaty fumes wafting from her hairy pits and taped over bush, but it changed nothing of her scent. Only its reach. Her arms and legs quavered to contain the power she poured through her muscles. She set her fierce gaze upon her targets. If she could overcome Yachiko's changes, she might take these men down. She might break her curse itself! After years of filth, of failure, of letting men best her in combat and take her mouth or part her cheeks as a reward, she just might set herself free. She could feel it coming. Now for a mighty kiai to take her over the top.

"Chestooooo-"

... and to the bottom.

"oooooooh!"

What started as a battle cry became a dirty moan. She hunched over. Knees turned inward. Pleasure jolted her pussy once, twice, three times. Like the famed lightning cut by her father's Raikiri, it struck quick and scorching between her legs. Except unlike her father, she failed, collapsing to a squat while gushing into her maebari. The talisman took it. Every drop. Soaked through. So wet, its whiteness cleared to reveal her quim in all its glory. The gentle folds exposed themselves to men who watched as bewildered as they were aroused.

"Did..." one asked. "Did you just-"

"Yes, you dumb fucks! I came! I had a big nasty orgasm cause I turned myself on and couldn't hold it in. You wanna take a closer look?"

"No thanks, we're leaving now."

"No, wait! I need to beat the shit out of you!" she shouted after them. "You can fuck me in the ass if I lose! It's pretty loose after all the times it's been kicked but I'm sure you could make it fit!"

It was pointless. That last attempt knocked her remaining strength clean out of her. For a climax. As those men disappeared over the bridge, Muginho stewed in her own juices.

Until a woman arrived. Over that same bridge. With ginger steps, the woman approached Muginho and kneeled before her. "That was quite a performance, Muginho."

Muginho scoffed. "Look lady, if you're not gonna give me something to drink or let me eat you out, you may as well go away."

"If it's sex you want," the woman offered, "I believe I have the perfect harlot in my troupe to satisfy your needs. She's stupid, she's sinful, and she'll do anyone and anything I ask - no matter how filthy it is."

Looking up, Muginho's eyes sparkled. Salvation. Maybe? Her lips trembled as her heart pounded. "Who... who are you?"

"I'm exactly who you think I am. My name is Okuni. I think you - or at least, your body - will come to enjoy the kind of work I have in store for you."


End file.
